


Worms

by head_archivist



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon-Typical Worms, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:41:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23891002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/head_archivist/pseuds/head_archivist
Summary: Jon may or may not have a little shellshock from the infestation. Good thing Martin picks up the phone at 4 AM.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 15
Kudos: 175





	Worms

_Worms._

Jon had once seen a video of a botfly larva being extracted from human skin. He remembers it vividly, even now, years later - the tweezers, the tugging, the squirming, the foul creature's desperation to remain burrowed into its nest of flesh. It made him shudder then. 

God, how he would rather it had just been a botfly. 

Martin carried a corkscrew. Probably still does. Weren't they invented to remove bullets, back during some war or other? He thinks, back in the part of his mind that can still think, that he heard that somewhere once. 

So there was the bite of the worm, and then the bite of the corkscrew, and he wishes, he wishes, he could say that the corkscrew was worse. It was a saving sting, though, dragging him back from the edge. 

The Grand Canyon, Jon thinks, is large. Yawning. There had been the same yawning stretched out ahead of him as the worms burrowed. He had been standing - or, well, not exactly standing, as it were, but placed - at the edge of a vast emptiness.

He'd been very surprised to realize he was afraid of death. 

Well - that isn't quite right, is it? he thinks now. He isn't so much afraid of death as he is of suffering. And he knows suffering, of course; he knows pain. Every moment of every day. And yet, when the pain comes from inside of him, from the misfiring of his nerves, it's so different from death pain. He is afraid to languish. He is afraid to suffer a long, slow decline, until there is nothing left in him to feel pain anymore, nor be grateful for the inevitable release. 

So: the corkscrew. 

He'd gladly face down the corkscrew a thousand times rather than feel a single worm burrow into his skin again. 

Jon is not one for dreaming. He doesn't dream often. Or at least, he doesn't remember his dreams. Before, the ones he recalled were memorable simply because of how pleasant they were. 

When he dreams now, he dreams of worms. 

Worms, squirming, crawling, burrowing. He stamps on them and they swarm up his legs, encapsulating him in a blanket of mouths, all fighting to tear a tunnel inside of him. 

His eyes are the last to go. He's pinned, now, under the weight of a hundred thousand horrible worms, and he can't move what is left of his arms to brush them away from his face. He stares them down, two of them, and they pause for a moment as if savouring his fear. 

Then they lunge and everything goes dark. 

And like that, he's sitting up, drenched in sweat. The face of his alarm, luminous in the dark of his room, glares the numbers 3:47 at him. The wee hours. If he could still sleep - if he could close his weary eyes - 

But that's it for sleep for tonight. He's been having these dreams long enough to recognize a losing battle. He carefully inspects every inch of his chest, his stomach, his arms, then peels back the sweat drenched sheets and examines his hips, his legs, his feet. When he runs his fingers over the puckered scars he shudders. He only barely registers the movement. 

That done, he sits for a while, afraid to dangle his legs over the edge of the bed. It's silly, isn't it? A grown man, afraid of the monsters under the bed. 

But the monsters have a face now. 

His arms are thinner than they used to be. He doesn't eat terribly well anymore. He isn't one for junk food, but now anytime he eats anything that's sprung out of the earth, the bile rises in his throat as he thinks of insects. 

The soil is where worms live. 

This revulsion is ridiculous, this he knows, but he can't rid himself of it. 

With trembling hands he reaches for his phone. He doesn't quite register what he's done until the screen illuminates, dazzling him and sending stars dancing behind his eyes. When his vision clears, he dials the only number he can think of and presses the phone to his ear. 

He isn't sure if he's hoping for a reply, or hoping it rings through. 

On the third ring, the line connects, and a bleary, sleep-muddled voice says, "hello?" 

His mouth is too dry to speak. 

"Hello?" the voice repeats, slightly clearer this time. 

"Martin," Jon croaks out. That's when he begins to cry. 

"Jon?" comes the reply. Martin sounds befuddled, and who can blame him? Jon would certainly hate to be awoken at - he checks his alarm clock again, and now it reads 4:13, how has all that time passed - to deal with a sobbing mess. 

Because that's what he is now. He's falling apart over the phone with a man whose presence he barely tolerates.

Pretends. Pretends to barely tolerate.

"Hey," says Martin, his high voice gentle and full of some emotion Jon can't quite name. "Hey, Jon, I'm here. Can you take a deep breath?" 

John hiccups and chokes out a strangled noise, but does his best. 

"Good," says Martin, as though soothing a spooked horse. 

Another noise wrenches itself free from Jon's throat.

"I know, I know. Just keep on taking breaths, alright? Let's do it together."

There's the sound of Martin taking a deep breath, and Jon does his best to swallow down a lungful of air. Then comes a rushing noise, and Jon exhales in time. In and out. Martin breathes him through it, as though delivering the oxygen straight to Jon's lungs. Breathing for him. Martin, his soft lines and gentle, slightly worried eyes, is a bellows. Jon can clearly see him in his imagination, also sitting up in bed, perhaps with his ever tousled hair falling in his eyes. 

This is far more than he could have hoped for. Far better than he deserves. 

Martin does one final noisy breath, and Jon sighs out in time with the exhale. 

"How are you feeling?" 

The tears threaten but Jon sniffles them back. "How do you think?" he says, a little sharper than intended. 

Jon immediately regrets it. He can too clearly imagine the wounded look in Martin's eyes. "I - I know you're upset," Martin begins. 

Jon cuts him off. "I'm sorry, Martin. That was…" He trails off. "Sorry for waking you," he says finally. 

"It's fine. If you're this upset I'm happy to be woken." He sounds uncomfortably sincere. 

There's a long silence. Jon's heard about this tactic. About creating quiet and space to talk. It's supposed to draw out the dark words so often covered up, even in the most vulnerable moments. Well, he knows this trick, and he isn't going to fall for it. 

But then Martin, damn him, _damn_ him, says in a soft, kind, far too patient voice, "please tell me what's wrong."

Jon doesn't stand a chance. 

He vomits words in a disgusting torrent. He talks about the dreams, jumping back and forth between corpses and worms and infestation and botflies and corkscrews. He says something he barely processes, then stops and backtracks and repeats it. 

"I died that night."

"You're alive, Jon. You're talking to me."

"Not that way. I mean -" He fumbles for the words. "I mean, the old Jonathan is gone. He died when the worms came. This is… someone else. Someone weaker."

"How are you weaker?" 

Jon laughs bitterly. "I'm talking about it, aren't I?" 

"That's not weakness," Martin says, his voice low. "That's vulnerability. That's strength."

He turns this over in his mind. He's too exhausted for it to make any sense. He decides it doesn't matter and instead just huffs down the line. 

"What do you need from me?" Martin asks. 

"You can hang up, if you want…"

"No, no, that isn't what I meant to imply. I'm really asking. How can I help?" 

"I don't know," says Jon. He fists a hand in his greying hair. He sighs; what he really wants to do is howl. "I can't sleep anymore. I'm exhausted."

"You're scared."

"That isn't what I said," he snaps. 

"No," says Martin. "It isn't. But it's what I heard."

There's a long pause then. Finally, Jon says, "Yes. Alright. I'm scared. I keep thinking I feel them. I can't sleep because when I'm asleep, I can't watch for them…"

"So how can I help?" 

"Come keep watch," Jon says drily. 

"I can come now," says Martin, and he's so fucking earnest. So sincere that Jon barks out a sharp laugh. 

"Oh, Martin, you idiot," he says, almost fondly. 

Martin, to his credit, laughs a little too. "How about," he says slowly, "I stay on the phone until you're asleep again?" 

"It will be a while," Jon warns him, but he's yawning. Perhaps the waterworks took more out of him than he'd realized. 

"I don't mind," says Martin. "Really, I don't. Why don't you get cozy?" 

"Are you going to sing me a lullaby, too?" asks Jon. He finds himself burrowing down into his blankets and stifling another yawn. For a moment, he pauses, considering how to hold his phone, then settles for placing it on the pillow and laying with his ear on it. 

"I don't know what you think about when you need comfort," Martin says. "But I think about being held. Can you imagine that, Jon? Just think about someone holding you and protecting you. Let them keep you safe."

"Mmm," Jon hums, too exhausted to protest. And it is, after all, a nice thought. 

"And everything is alright now. You can be vulnerable. You can be open. Let someone else take care of you for once."

Soft Martin. Dear Martin, with his round face and clumsy hands. So gentle. So unwaveringly kind. Far more kind than Jon deserves. 

"Can you feel it, Jon? Strong arms around you. Let yourself drift off. Feel every muscle relaxing. All the tension is leaving your body, one nerve at a time."

There's a noise reminiscent of a faint snore. Did it come from him? 

His eyes are so heavy he can't open them anymore. He feels warmth surrounding him, not unlike a pair of arms. He's surprised by how much he craves that touch. 

"Goodnight, Jon," he hears. Then just a little sigh.

He's almost gone, floppy like a sleepy puppy, but as if from a great distance, he hears a handful of words that don't quite register in his mind: "Oh, I adore you."

But when he wakes in the morning, he doesn't remember them at all. 

**Author's Note:**

> thank for read
> 
> im only like 45 episodes in and already these two are killing me


End file.
